


Cold Creme, Rouge, Cosmetic Sponges, Gaffer Tape & Gobos

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, Artist Sherlock, Assistant Technical director John, Based on a True Story, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Ficlet, Filthy, Fluff and Crack, Graphic Sex, Graphic minor character death, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, Kansas City, M/M, Makeup artist Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn, Small case fic, Smut, Theatre AU, Tumblr request, Virgin Sherlock, fly loft, on screen death, toplock, waiting for guffman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a makeup artist and John is the assistant technical director at the Cobblestone Street Theatre in Kansas City, Missouri.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Learning to Build

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [kimluvsbenedict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimluvsbenedict/gifts).



> *Check tags for updated warnings*
> 
>  
> 
> For all my theatre nerds.

Sherlock was not excited to be stuck in the middle of nowhere. 

At this point in his career, with a Master's Degree from Carnegie Mellon, he should be in a large theatre. In New York. In London. Anywhere. Not in Kansas City, where the little theatre company that could (as he took to calling it in his head), had to rent out a different space for each production. 

Right now, they were putting up "Fly Loft," which was no better than a reboot of "Waiting for Guffman." The play was about a theatre company whose main character (spoiler alert) dies - either from an accident or someone else killing him. _Boring_. If Sherlock didn't get out of this town after this show, someone would be murdered. Besides American Theatre, which was slowly dying at the hands of this theatre company bit by bit. 

He'd developed the makeup designs for the cast, only six, and was currently helping with the costumes as he was fairly handy with a sewing machine. As he finished the last shirt (boring), Irene, the company manager, marched in with her clipboard and her list. 

"Ok, virgin," she snapped, addressing Sherlock,"I have a new job for you, and I don't want you to screw it up. We have an assistant tech director, John, here for a week or so to put the set up, safely. I want you to help him."

Sherlock tossed the shirt on a hanger, "I don't build, Irene, have you lost your mind?"

"No, virgin, I am trying, so help me god, to get you laid so you're not such an ass. As part of my company manager duties. You're talented, but you're a dick. John is sweet, patient, and he's flirted with a couple other guys. So go help him."

"I have no idea what I'm doing-"

"Then tell him that," she said, pushing him out the door, her fingers on the small of his back, "Come with me. I'll help start the conversation."

Irene didn't take no for an answer, ever. She pulled him, pushed him, cajoled him onto the stage where the technicians and builders were debating over the set design. Tedious, really. It was simple. A scrim, a bare stage, some old stage lighting for dressing, and a scaffold. He assumed that they would just borrow some old scaffolding and rig that up for the set. However, as he overheard Greg, the director, he realized it was more complicated. The top had to have a breakaway edge and a safe landing for the actor for the death scene. That would require skill and a complicated design. 

Irene went into the middle of the stage, and called up into the fly loft, "Oy, John, this is Sherlock. He's out of work to do in the sewing room and the makeup design is done, so I thought I'd lend him to you,"

Sherlock heard the clanging of a wrench against a light, "Can't quite hear you, Irene, be down one sec,"

Sherlock smiled, "I like him. I'm sure he heard you just fine, he's just getting used to ignoring you, like the rest of us-" She poked him with her clipboard, "Shut up. Be nice to him. I'd like him to stick around for more than one show."

Sherlock turned when he heard the steel toed boots clack on the wood flooring. The man, a little older than him, (late 20s to early 30s) was shorter, but built. He had muscles on his shoulders and upper arms, and he was tan and blonde haired. Sherlock had to consciously keep his mouth shut as John was wearing a white tank and shorts, leaving almost none of his upper body to the imagination. 

"John, this is Sherlock, Sherlock, John." Irene beamed at Sherlock when she caught him staring and at a loss for words. John came closer, reaching out his hand to shake the other man's. Sherlock's brain had short circuited, and he responded to the handshake out of pure habit alone. 

"Hi, Sherlock," he had a dazzling smile, "I'm not really a theatre person, I work in construction, by my sister Harry asked me to help. Sounds like the rigging will be pretty complicated?"

Sherlock nodded, finally finding his voice, "Yea, I thought it would be simple. Didn't realize the extra...um....bars and things that would need to be added."

John smiled, turning pink just slightly, "Yea, we have to keep it safe. That's what's most important."

Irene dismissed herself, and John brought Sherlock with him into the wood-shop to begin measuring and reading the set designer's draft. John was easy to speak with, and Sherlock felt himself relaxing fairly quickly. "So, you did the makeup designs?" John asked, as Sherlock helped him pick up a large plank to cut down, "Do you think you can make me look better? I'm a little weather worn." John laughed. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock replied, "I think you look perfect." 

John stopped before hoisting the piece of board on the table saw, and gave Sherlock a dazzling smile, "Thank you."

They spent the next couple of hours talking, bringing wood to the stage, measuring, and adapting the partially built scaffold to fit what they needed it to do. Sherlock found himself watching the tech director as he easily made and remembered measurements in his head, climbed the scaffolding in seconds, all while smiling and laughing and telling jokes. Rather than berating Sherlock when he didn't understand what the equipment was or how to use it, he was patient, giving Sherlock the names of the tools discretely. As they were working on their last set of smaller pieces, Sherlock kept having to blow his curls out of his eyes. John went over to Sherlock and pushed his hair out of his eyes for him, teasing "I love your hair, but goodness, it would get in my way." Sherlock felt warm as John came close and smoothed his hair out of his face for him. He grinned back, hoping he didn't look too ridiculous. 

As everyone trickled out of the theatre, John began cleaning up, giving Sherlock permission to leave and get some rest. Instead, he offered to buy him dinner, "As a thank you for showing him around the scene shop," An hour later, they sat on the green room couch, giggling and eating pizza and drinking beer, sharing stories of the most horrible bosses, or directors, they'd worked with. 

"So, you've never really worked in a theatre before?" Sherlock picked at the beer label, to give his hands something to do. 

John laughed, "No, I'm surprised you couldn't tell. I build houses, Irene had to get on me about screwing and gluing everything like it was meant to last for 100 years. She wanted me here for my expertise in making things structurally sound, but I imagine once this set piece is done I'll go back to homes."

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, "It's been nice having you here. Sorry it's not going to last very long."

John put a ringlet of Sherlock's hair behind his ear, "You do makeup, yea?" Sherlock nodded, "Practice on me, show me what you do?"

Sherlock grinned, pulling John up from the soft couch cushions. When he stood up, Sherlock towered over him just slightly, but John met his eye contact. It took a moment for Sherlock to speak, "Here, sit here. This is where I create the designs for the actors," he showed him, one by one, the paper faces covered in swatches of color, "the actors apply it themselves after I teach them, but I show them what to do."

"Show me," John said, sitting in front of a mirror with lights. He turned his head up to Sherlock, smiling. Sherlock grabbed his stool, and moved extremely close to John, caging him in with his legs, pulling the makeup kit closer, "Ok, when you're doing makeup, the main thing is to extenuate the features. If I'm not making you up to look older-"

"God, please no, younger, if anything else-"

Sherlock smiled, "Like I said, I think you're perfect," he cleared his throat, then kept going, "If I'm going to just highlight your features so the audience can see them more clearly, this is what I would do." He paused, mixing up some foundation and eye makeup, and rouge. 

"You have beautiful, blue eyes. They're absolutely gorgeous," Sherlock began, and he watched John blush, "I would make sure to put on a foundation - which I won't do to you - as it's thick and heavy - but the foundation would be just a little deeper version of your natural tone. I don't want the light to wash you out, I want the audience to see your eyes as much as possible," at this, he took a brush and ran his fingertip over John's eyelid to close it, "I would put just a hint of honeysuckle and cinnamon on your eyelid and in your eye crease, to pop out the blue, so everyone, even in the back, could see your eyes." 

The room was quiet as Sherlock worked on his eyes, blending and smoothing. He felt John's breathing speed up just slightly, and Sherlock smiled. He smoothed the pad of his thumbs over his eyebrows, then quietly whispered for John to open his eyes. 

"Your lips, and your cheeks, John, have natural, beautiful color," Sherlock kept eye contact, noticing John's pupils dilate, "I love how they flush this gorgeous peach shade when you're embarrassed. I wouldn't cover it, I would just match that color, and place a little more on your face, so everyone could see," Sherlock gently placed some light peach rouge on John's cheekbones, rubbing it in gently with his fingertips, and his thumb. He was touching him far more than was needed, and kept one hand on his knee. 

"Your lips, John, I would add just a bit of color to petroleum jelly and put it on your lips," With this, Sherlock leaned in even closer, smoothing a bit of jelly on his fingertip, with a touch of the color he'd applied to his cheekbones. Before he reached his lips, John dove forward, crushing Sherlock's lips to his own. Sherlock moaned, pulling back, "Or, kissing works, kissing would cause blood flow to your cheeks and lips, which would look gorgeous-"

"Shut up and kiss me," John grinned, pulling Sherlock up. John stood, grabbing Sherlock by the hips, picking him up. Instinctively, Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist as he carried him back to the couch, kissing him the entire time. "Oh my god, you're carrying me to the green room couch?" 

"Where else, Sherlock?" John grinned, kissing him as he laid him on his back onto the cushions, "You are gorgeous. Can I? Can we?" He looked up at Sherlock, then began peeling away his own shirt. Sherlock had seen most of this before, his nipples poking through the shirt, his abs, his muscles across his back and shoulders, but having it laid out for him was breathtaking. 

"Yes, John, yes," Sherlock scrambled up to kiss him, running his nails up and down John's back. John moaned, grinding himself down on the couch on top of Sherlock. It felt heavenly. Sherlock had kissed before, but never been touched, had never been naked with someone else. For the next few moments, John kissed Sherlock with his tongue, nipping at his lips with his teeth. Sherlock stopped him, begging, "Please, I've never done this before, and I want to, but I'm afraid I will-"

John stopped grinding and sat back up on the couch, "So, you are? I thought Irene was joking."

"No, I am," Sherlock wanted a hole to appear and swallow him up, "I'm 25 and a virgin. I've had plenty of men laugh at me, so if that's what you're going to do, then leave-"

"No baby," John pulled him close in an embrace, "No, no. Never. If you're a virgin, I'm not having sex with you on a green room couch, for god's sakes."

"Please, I want to, please-" 

John pulled back and kissed him quickly on the mouth, "I live in an apartment within walking distance, let's go."

It was nearing ten pm when John grabbed Sherlock's hand and they ran out of the theatre down an alleyway to a small door hidden in the side of a bar, "I live in this apartment above my parents' bar. It's cheap, nothing fancy, but I have a nice bed." John winked, letting Sherlock walk ahead of him. He pinched Sherlock's ass as he walked up the stairs. 

Sherlock grabbed him and pushed him up against the door when they were inside. He was right, nothing fancy, but the bed was made up with a beautiful quilt, "my grandmother's," he explained, as they fought with each other to remove boots, shoes, pants, underwear. They fell into a laughing, naked heap on top of the bed. Sherlock spread himself over John's naked body, feeling across every muscle, every bone, rolling himself over him. He didn't know what he wanted, or how to verbalize it, but he wanted closer, to be with, near and in. He had no idea how to do this or how to express it. 

"Ssshhh, baby, slow down, breathe," John pushed his dark ringlets out of his eyes, kissing his jaw, his chin, his neck. As Sherlock moaned, John sucked a love bite into the side of his neck, right where anyone would see, "Are you ok, if Irene can see this?" As Sherlock nodded, John sucked harder, nipping as he created his mark. Sherlock moaned, grabbing at the cotton bedding, running his fingers through John's hair, anything. He pushed his pelvis down, feeling himself rub against John's hips, his erection, his balls. 

In the soft glow of the lamp, Sherlock turned over and looked at John. He was beautiful. His hair, his eyes, his chest, the golden hair that trailed from his stomach down to his pelvis where his cock stood at attention. Sherlock's mouth was dry, "Why, why are you here with me? You are so gorgeous, John."

John's eyes crinkled at the compliment, and he kissed the top of Sherlock's nose, "You are the beautiful one, my lovely boy," John reached into the drawer and pulled out a condom and lube, pulling Sherlock to the side to watch. "This time, I want you to be inside me, Sherlock. We can slowly work up to everything else, but being on the bottom takes preparation and work, and I'm impatient. And, I don't want to hurt you."

Sherlock watched as John put lube on his fingers, wrapping them around Sherlock as he placed the condom on. He nearly orgasmed from that touch alone. Then, John took his fingers, preparing himself for Sherlock's cock. He drove one finger in and out, moaning, twisting himself on the bed, "Watch me," John begged, taking Sherlock's hand and placing it on his inner thigh, "think about me, wet and hot, just for you- Sherl-" he moaned, pushing a second an a third finger inside himself, scissoring them, pulling his quivering ring of muscle more open in preparation for his lover. Sherlock felt dizzy, staring at his erection, wondering how it would dare fit in that small of a space. 

John put himself on his side, urging Sherlock to slide in behind him, "This will be good, even if you can't get in all the way, or we go too quickly, this will feel good," Just as he'd been patient with the scene shop, John was patient in walking Sherlock through each step, and what to do, "Now, pull yourself close to me, line yourself up, that's it. ohmygod, you beautiful boy. Push yourself into me, as gentle and as hard as you want, and fuck me, wrap your other hand around my cock-"

John stopped speaking as Sherlock pushed through the last bit of resistance and he was fully seated into John. He snapped his hips, again and again, the only sound their moans and the slapping of Sherlock's pelvis and thighs against John's. He tried his best to reach around to find John's cock to stroke, but there was too much sensation, he kept losing his grip as another wave of approaching orgasm struck him. He felt John push backwards and forwards against his own thrusts as Sherlock's stomach pulled upward. As Sherlock came, John cried out, crying Sherlock's name as he turned his head into this pillow. Sherlock shook, holding onto John, unsure of what to do. As always, John was patient, and willing to walk Sherlock through each step. 

"Oh, sweetheart, my beautiful boy. Pull yourself out, gently, oh you are so good. Take the condom, that's it, tie it off so it's not such a mess, and come here. Come here, my beautiful boy."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him into his embrace, putting the boy's head on his chest and shoulder. He breathed into his hair, kissing the crown of his head, running his fingers lightly over Sherlock's shoulders and neck. 

Sherlock was terrified. Should he leave? Should he ask him if it was good? What does one do in cases like this-

"Sherlock, sweetheart, you said that out loud."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at John. Again, he wanted to be swallowed up and never seen again. 

"Oh, Sherlock, love. Stay here. Stay here and we'll go back to the theatre tomorrow. You were amazing, you are amazing, my beautiful boy," John kissed him again, drawing hm closer, covering them both up with the comforter. They were sticky and sweaty, but Sherlock couldn't care enough to leave. As John slowly fell into slumber, Sherlock spent some of the night studying him, watching him sleep, cataloging the exact colors of his skin and hair. He was a marvel. He was worth painting.


	2. The First Morning

Sherlock woke next to John. He was amazed at the beautiful, muscular shoulders and his back that rose and fell with each breath. This was his first - boyfriend? Sexual partner? 

He wasn't sure what John was, yet. John most certainly had, in the past, more sexual experience that Sherlock, who before now had none. He might consider this a fling, or a week long distraction while he was simply working on the set and making it structurally sound. 

Regardless, Sherlock was determined to enjoy it. 

He rolled over onto John, covering John's back and ass with his entire body. They were both still naked. Sherlock bestowed kisses along John's neck and shoulders. Instinctively, he ground his pelvis, and his cock, down into John's pelvis. His penis, which was becoming hard, slipped just a bit in between John's cheeks. At this, John began to wake and turn his head over. He whispered in a gravely tone, "Sherlock?"

"Let me do this, John, please," Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, nipping playful bites, sucking on his skin. His cock slipped in between his cheeks just a bit more, but he didn't penetrate him. He just rubbed, and fit himself in between, lazily rocking himself against him. His skin slapped against John's, sweat causing them to stick together. Sherlock felt a deep pull to rut, to push, to grab onto John and push him into himself. 

Sherlock began thrusting in earnest, but didn't make a move to grab the lube, or to prepare John. He rubbed his cock on the outside of John's entrance and his cheeks, just teasing, just enjoying the sensation. John was moaning with Sherlock, rutting himself in an alternating fashion against Sherlock's cock and the sheets. 

After a few more minutes, John lifted his pelvis and got his hand around his cock and stroked. The angle caused Sherlock to cry out. John was now perfectly angled so Sherlock could glide the tip of his penis from John's tailbone all the way to his bollocks.

They thrust into one another, not speaking, just moaning. Sherlock cried out "John!" when he came, spilling himself all over John's back, dripping all over his crack. John rolled over, and in a filthy display, used Sherlock's come as lubricant to finish himself with his hand and two fingers buried in his arse. Sherlock had never seen anything so hot in his life. 

When John came, Sherlock licked at him, cleaning him up, rolling over him again, but front to front. He kissed his neck, his chest, and ran his fingers through his hair. They fell back asleep, stickier than before, wrapped around one another.


	3. Did You Love Him?

Sherlock woke to John kissing him. He was unsure how to respond. He'd been worried that he'd hurt John, but he seemed perfectly content. In looking over John's body, he couldn't imagine him fitting inside of Sherlock. That would have to take a lot of preparation and encouragement. He didn't feel different, except for the fact that he didn't want to leave this bed. He wanted to stay wrapped around John, feeling his lips across his jaw and his neck. 

"How are you, my beautiful boy?" Sherlock felt himself blush an the endearment. He couldn't believe the muscled body of John Watson. How he rolled himself up, the gorgeous look of his abs and hipbones. 

"Are you ok, John? Did I hurt you?" He rubbed his jaw, searching John's face while he answered him. 

"No, my dear. I am a little sore, but I've done that a bit more recently than you."

"How recently?" Sherlock bit his lip. It was really none of his business. 

"Oh, sweetheart," John kissed him sweetly on the lips, "A few months ago. Probably six months ago?"

"Did you love him?" Sherlock surprised himself. He never cared about this, or anyone. He was not accustomed to caring, or feeling possessive. Perhaps this was completely inappropriate to ask, "I'm sorry, it's none of my business-"

"Of course it's your business," John sat up, pulling himself up against the headboard, and adjusting Sherlock so he was tucked up against his hip. He put his arm around him, stroking his hair, "I don't think I was in love with him, looking back on it. I thought I loved him, but he thought of me more as a distraction," he ran his fingers through his hair, then up and down Sherlock's side, "I haven't known you long, but I like you. I don't just fuck boys and leave them. Unless this is all you want?"

John pursed his lips, looking into Sherlock's face. Sherlock put his head on John's shoulder, his hand on his chest, "No, that's not all I want. I like you, too. I've just never had a boyfriend before. So I don't know how to do this."

John grinned, bending down to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, "We'll do whatever we want. There aren't any rules. I'd like to keep seeing you. Keep working with you in the theatre, as long as they need me. But I know you're new to this. I don't want you to get involved if you don't want to. But I want you to know, I want to. I want you here."

Sherlock pulled himself closer, kissing John's shoulder. They sat, silent, lazily running their fingers along each other's arms, ribs. A knock at the door interrupted their cuddle. 

"Oh, dammit, my parents," John huffed, "They probably need me to help stock before I head over to the theatre," John hopped out of bed and grabbed his underwear and jeans that were on the floor. He gave Sherlock a look over his shoulder, "Do you want to come down with me and help?"

Sherlock left the bed, and searched for his clothes as well, "You're ok if I meet your parents?"

John smiled at him before pulling his shirt up over his head, "Yeah, if _you_ don't mind," John looked out from the bedroom doorway into the living room, "Give me just a second, ok? I'll shut the door and you can come out when you're ready."

Sherlock felt nervous being left alone in John's room. It was sparse, but full of books. He noticed, now that there was daylight streaming into the room, that his closet was full of power tools and safety equipment. He could imagine John working in the heat of day, climbing onto a roof or scaffolding, building a home from the foundation up. Sherlock had only seen him work for a day, and he was intrigued by his quick abilities to build and his extreme patience. He did not act as one would expect at first glance. 

Sherlock heard muffled voices through the closed bedroom door. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that no matter when he went into the living room it would be awkward. As he stepped into the room, attempting to smooth down his bedhead of curls, he saw John standing next to a man that looked just like John except he had silver laced in his blonde hair and he had a few more wrinkles. His mother had brown hair, in long wavy lengths, interspersed with highlights of silver. They all beamed at Sherlock, which instantly caused his cheeks and neck to flush. 

"Mom and Dad, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock," John said it confidently, putting his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, encouraging him to come to the center of the room and shake hands with his parents. Sherlock couldn't move for a moment. _Boyfriend._ He'd called him boyfriend. One day and one night together. This was insane. He didn't do relationships. No one had ever wanted to spend time with him, let alone attach themselves to him so quickly. Was this a joke? He didn't sense that John could lie. His feelings were clear on his face, and he said exactly what he thought. He didn't think John had the time or the inclination for nonsense such as stringing someone along. 

John looked at him, sensing Sherlock was tensing up or upset, as it had been a few seconds since he'd moved or spoken. He stood on his tiptoes, coming close to Sherlock's ear, "You ok?" 

Sherlock nodded, smiling, "Yeah."


	4. Be Nice

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Watson," Sherlock said, pushing his hair out of his eyes, "I'm Sherlock," He remembered the love mark John had left on his neck, but it was too late to do anything about it now. 

John's dad stepped forward, reaching out his hand to shake Sherlock's. He had a wide smile on his face, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "Hello, Mr. Sherlock."

Sherlock coughed, his ears turning pink, "Sherlock is my first name. My name is Sherlock Holmes." John smiled at him, but Sherlock was unsure of what he'd said or done that was amusing. 

John's mom stepped forward, shaking his hand as well, "How did you two meet?" Mr. Watson smiled at her, "Now, no interrogations, the boys just woke up."

John groaned, "Dad," but Sherlock continued to answer the question. "Well, we work together at the theatre."

Mrs. Watson nodded, "Is Sherlock your stage name, then?" 

"Oh, no, I do makeup and prosthetic design. My actual name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. My parents wanted to give my brother and I unique names."

John's dad gave a hearty laugh that sounded like John's, just a bit more gravely, "Goodness, we failed then. Two very common names for our kids. Harriet and John."

"But I like the name John," Sherlock interjected, at nearly a whisper. 

Mrs. Watson laughed, patting Sherlock's arm, "Yes, it is a great name." She turned to John's father, "I like him." 

John looked at Sherlock, then moved closer to him, linking their fingers together, "You okay if I go down and cook you all breakfast?" 

Sherlock looked at John with his eyebrows furrowed. John looked back at him, leaning closer so their noses were almost touching, "Yes, Sherlock, I can cook. I am quite the catch." He winked, then kissed Sherlock's nose. Sherlock pulled back a little bit, then did something new, he giggled. John, still holding Sherlock's hand, led him downstairs to the bar, his parents following behind. 

John's parents' bar, _The Saint's Bar_ , was a popular haunt of both the working class and the artist scene in downtown Kansas City. The bar also had a commercial grill and a fully stocked kitchen. John led Sherlock to a heavy wooden table, indicating for his parents to sit by him. As stepped behind the bar to the kitchen, he called over to his folks, "Please be nice to him!"

Mrs. Watson was positioned so she could see both Sherlock sitting next to her and John cooking at the grill. She called back over to John, "Are you sure you don't want us to work on coffee?"

"Mom!" John came out front wearing an absolutely filthy white apron, " No, you two sit and get to know Sherlock a little bit. But be nice," he disappeared back into the kitchen. Sherlock began biting at the skin around his thumbnail. 

"So, Sherlock," John's mom began, "How long have you and John known each other?"

Sherlock thought carefully before answering, "Not very long, Mrs. Watson. We just met at the theatre and we became friends right away."

Mr. Watson stood up to gather the salt and pepper shakers to refill them. Mrs. Watson chastised him, "Daniel, sit down this instant. Those can wait." 

Mr. Watson sat, pulling his mouth into a sideways grin, "Lesson one, Sherlock. John is like his mother. Always listen to what he says," He winked. 

"Oh, we're not that bad."

"I didn't say you were _bad_ , I just said you were _bossy_ , and it's easier to just go along with what you say. It's usually the right way to do things," he grinned at her, patting her hand. Sherlock couldn't help smiling, looking from one to the other. 

"We fought a lot, though, Sherlock, at the beginning. We get along together this much because we've been married for 40 years."

Mr. Watson shook his finger at her, "Don't scare him, dear, they aren't getting married."

"Well," she threw up her hands, "he must really like him! He introduced him to us, and he's cooking us all breakfast. This hasn't happened before!"

Sherlock felt his ears redden, and his thumb began to bleed from him continually biting on the skin surrounding his nail. He didn't mind being talked about while he was sitting there, but Sherlock had no idea how he was to live up to their expectations. 

"I, um, need to go check on John," Sherlock said barely above a squeak.

Mr. Watson sighed, "Sherlock, son, please sit." His eyes were soft, his tone pleading, "We can come across, as quite intense. We just-" he gestured his hands in a circular motion, as if he were using his hands to bring him an idea, "I guess we're extremely happy for John and excited to meet you. We just want you to know that. John has had a hard time meeting people, and we're happy that he introduced you."

Sherlock took a napkin and pressed it to his thumb, and nodded. John came back, balancing four coffees and four plates of food on a tray. He gave his parents a pointed look as he sat their food down, the ceramic clapping against the heavy wood. 

"Sherlock, were they nice to you?" Sherlock looked up at John. His face was flushed from the heat of the grill, his muscles of his arms flexing as he balanced the tray and put the food down in front of Sherlock and his family. He couldn't get words to form. 

John huffed, "Well, I'll be talking with Sherlock, alone, after breakfast. If he indicates you were too pushy, or too _nosy,_ Mother, I won't help you unload the truck."

John sat beside Sherlock, their thighs touching. Sherlock only began eating after John reminded him, twice, that he needed to eat something before it went cold.


	5. Fascinating to Watch

Sherlock watched John interact with his parents. Though the artist's relationship with his mummy and dad was good, it was different. They'd sent Sherlock to school to become a lawyer. When he'd dropped out for makeup design at a local summer stock theatre they hadn't talked to him for weeks.

That wasn't because they didn't love him, it was because they didn't want to say something they'd regret.

John's parents were extremely proud. John's main job was construction, in addition to helping at the restaurant, so not everything rose and fell on being successful in the theatre.

John and Sherlock stood next to each other, elbows deep in soapy water that filled stainless steel, industrial sinks. The water was so hot it caused Sherlock's arms to flush, even though he wore gloves. John bumped into him after every pass of dishes from wash to rinse, grinning at Sherlock under his blonde eyelashes. When the dishes were finished, John gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek and grabbed his hand. 

"We've got to go to the theatre, mom and dad. Be back about 1am." John yelled. Sherlock felt incredibly young. He'd assumed that John was a loner, like him. Even though his apartment was sparsely decorated and he was independent didn't mean he lived life on his own. John's home, Sherlock felt, was in the wood of the restaurant and in his parents' loving, but overbearing, care.

As they snuck through the alleyway Sherlock dared ask, "Did you help build the restaurant? Some of the flourishes on the moulding looked like what you'd started on the set."

John turned, stopping Sherlock short. They skidded into one another, "You noticed that?" John whispered, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

Sherlock nodded, "Every set designer has a particular flair or look that's all their own. Some are the paint palettes they choose. Others are the lines and organization of elements. Your lines are simple, but you add detailed embellishments that will show up beautifully with the accented lighting design. It reminded me of the restaurant."

John furrowed his brow, his hands now on his hips. He didn't speak for a moment, and Sherlock took a half step back. 

"You," John said, crowding Sherlock up against the brick wall in the alley, "Are a brilliant artist. Amazing. No one ever notices those additions and they're my favorites," John kissed Sherlock, running his hands up his ribs and chest, lightly teasing his fingertips over his nipples. Sherlock moaned, grinding his pelvis into John's. 

"John, John. We're going to be late," Sherlock squeaked as John smacked his mouth with deep kisses. John giggled. 

"All right," he took Sherlock's hand and they walked together down the street and into the theatre. It was empty, and Sherlock excused himself to shower in the green room, blushing when he realized he was wearing yesterday's clothes. John grinned, offering to wash Sherlock's clothes while he showered. 

In the shower, Sherlock scrubbed with the tea tree oil shampoo and body wash he kept tucked in the broken, corner locker. That was also where he'd kept his joints until he'd finally broken his smoking habit all together. He couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes or smoke after his Grandpa was left a wheezing shell with COPD and a tracheotomy.

"Sherlock," John called from outside the shower. He didn't open the curtain even though they'd already seen each other intimately the night before, "I've got your clothes in the wash. I found some leggings and a long Tshirt?"

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and into a towel John held in his arms. John wrapped Sherlock up, cradling him against his chest, John's lips reaching Sherlock's jaw, "You smell heavenly, Sherlock." He said, handing Sherlock the clothes. As he dressed, John watched him, letting his eyes roam over his lean frame. 

"You look like a dancer," John whispered, pulling Sherlock's Tshirt down over his shoulders. As he pulled it down over his waist, he rubbed his fingertips into the ridges above Sherlock's hips and the cleft of his ass, "You are gorgeous. I don't know how I'll be able to concentrate on working with you looking like a model. I don't know how anyone can focus when you're close to them, putting makeup on them. My beautiful boy."

Sherlock felt dizzy from John's attention and praise. He kissed him, grabbing at his shirt, Sherlock laughed, "I just got dressed," and John nibbled on his neck, "I didn't realize you'd look so gorgeous in these clothes."

As John was palming Sherlock through his leggings, they heard the door slam on the other end of the green room. John huffed, pulling back, "Oh. Time to work. We'll continue this later, yea?"

Sherlock squeezed John's hand and watched him leave the green room. His heart ached.


	6. A Strong Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this artwork: http://jurgbury.tumblr.com/post/116435449177/snowunderthestars-jurgbury

Sherlock was dressed for dancing in his borrowed leggings and oversized T-Shirt rather than for helping John build the stage set. That didn't stop Sherlock from following John into the scene shop to help him on the table saw. He watched John, fascinated with how he could pick up three heavy two by fours and carry them over his shoulder. He was a marvel to behold. 

John needed a few moments to himself to review his plans and determine what materials he had to purchase. Sherlock didn't realize how tired he was until he curled up in the corner to rest. His eyes drooped as he put his head on his knees, watching John through his curls. 

He woke up to hands stroking his hair and shoulders. At first, he thought Irene had put his head on her lap but the feel of the fingers was wrong. He turned his head, disoriented. He remembered the smell of John's bed, and he realized he was tucked into John's lap. He smiled, just catching bits of sawdust in John's hair reflected in the sunlight. 

"Good morning, love," John whispered, bending down to give Sherlock a peck on the forehead. 

Sherlock smiled, adjusting himself on John's lap, "This floor is not very comfortable."

John laughed, "I had finished cutting all the wood and I looked over and you were asleep. Laying here on the cement floor, curled up on yourself. I couldn't believe it."

Sherlock drew his hand up through John's hair, drifting his fingers across his cheekbone. He giggled, "I guess I was exhausted from last night."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, fully capturing him up into his arms, sitting him on his lap, squeezing him into himself. He looked into his face, "I can't believe you."

John kissed his mouth sweetly, just a light press of warm lips. Sherlock felt John's heart thumping wildly, and his respiration a speed up. They heard a cough, and turned to see Irene standing over them. 

"So," she smiled, "I'm going to have to give Sherlock here a new nickname." She walked away, carrying her clipboard and her binder. 

Sherlock rolled off of John's lap, and John stretched, then rolled up to his feet. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She drives me crazy." John laughed, "She appears to get the job done, though. But you may want to go change clothes, love, before everyone sees you in that outfit."

Sherlock felt his face turn pink. He went to the costume shop and saw Molly, the head costumer, sewing on a pair of dress slacks for the lead actor. She didn't say a word, but just raised her eyebrows as he went to the dryer to collect his (now clean) clothes from last night. 

"So," Molly said, sauntering over to him, "It's nice to work in a place where if you stay the night over at a boy's house you can at least wash your clothes the next day. Did you rip anything? I've got a few minutes to patch it up."

Sherlock opened and shut his mouth a few times. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just ran to the restroom to change clothes. He heard Molly yelling after him, "I want my clothes back, Sherlock!"

\-----

Most of the day was spent putting the scaffolding together. The scaffold was the main showcase of the play, as it was where the lead actor would fall and presumably die from it. However, John was brought it to make sure that the rigging and scaffold was safe to prevent any injury to the actor. The scaffold was nearly done, and it was beautiful. It looked just like a regular set of scaffolding, but it had quick releases and footholds for the actor to quickly ascend or descend. The stage was also recessed to hold a drop mat. 

It was beautiful. 

The scaffold had to be inspected by the union, whose representative was James Moriarty. With the scaffold complete, the next and last step was the inspection. The scaffold tower was the highlight of the show. 

Inspection was scheduled for the next morning. There was nothing left to do but wait for the union inspector.


	7. If You Put a Gun on Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read updated tags

The set is just dressing. Just an addition. John knew that. The actors were the draw. Hell, the makeup and costumes were more glorious than the simple scaffold he was building. But this was always the stressful part of any show. The tech inspection of a difficult production, then a roll into tech week. 

Those outside theatre thought the difficult part of theatre was the endless productions, acting in the theatre night after night. No. That was easy. Once the play was memorized and engraved into your bones, going on the stage night after night was rote. It became fun. 

The opposite of this fun was the week that came before it. The week where the technical aspects had to crash like a freight train into the weeks of actor rehearsals. Light cues, props, quick costume changes, everything noted and choreographed with furor by the stage manager. 

Harry Watson was a marvel at Stage Management. Had been since high school. Where there would be a group of disorganized and wild children, she would whip them into shape and demand full concentration. Every schedule was made to the minute for maximum efficiency, and even her teachers and professors deferred to her judgement. She was Equity, and was moving to New York after this season. 

The arrival of Jim Moriarty, the technical theatre inspector, rattled Harry Watson. John couldn't believe his eyes. She fidgeted with her clipboard as he asked questions, and deferred to John with some questions to be sure she was answering them correctly. 

Finally satisfied with the inspection, that the scaffolding was sound and that the actor could lean on it at the right time and it would flip open for the dramatic fall, Jim Moriarty left them in peace. John watched his sister leave the stage and go outside to drink some scotch she kept hidden in her office. 

When Harry returned, she was back to herself. Everyone had marching orders. Costumes were placed first, with protective capes on top, then makeup, then run throughs. Even though not everyone was needed, everyone had to stay close in case of a change or a fix. 

After the actors were dressed, made up, and on stage, John sat down on the couch. Not meaning to, he fell asleep, his lullaby the actors running their lines over the speakers in the green room. He cocked one eye open when he felt pressure on the couch. 

Sherlock leaned down and whispered in John's ear, "Tech weeks used to be so boring. I would sit around, waiting, so bored I would smoke cigarettes and contemplate finding heavier drugs. Now, I think we can do something else to pass the time."

John sat up and let Sherlock lead him to the prop closet. Theatres were always so pressed for space they would hide and tuck props, furniture, and old costumes into every available hiding place. Lights were kept under stairs. Costumes stored near makeup boxes. These props were stored in a sound proof, cinder block room next to the furnace and boiler. 

"Sherlock," John huffed as the younger boy bent him over a piece of a metal, gymnasium bench. The lines in the metal caused a pleasing bite and scrape against his belly. He felt cold air as Sherlock pulled his jeans down just enough to expose his hole, slicking his fingers with spit and pushing just the tip of his finger inside. 

"Oh my god," John exhaled, grabbing the bench, willing himself to relax, "You are making up for lost time."

John felt the warm and uncomfortable drag of more fingers pushing inside him, he was embarrassed by how hot and turned on by the filthiness of it. He imagined how they'd look to someone else. A blonde man, bent over a prop size version of a gymnasium bench, metal sliding against the cement floor. The blonde man fucking himself on the fingers of the taller, lithe, dark haired younger man who was still fully dressed in a T-shirt and criminally tight black jeans. 

"Sherlock, god, please, do you have anything?"

Sherlock didn't speak, but John felt him wrestling something out of his pocket. John felt empty as Sherlock withdrew his fingers. John then roared his head back as he felt just the head of Sherlock's lube covered cock rubbing over him in circles, dipping in him just slightly, then pulling out. Teasing. Stretching slightly. Rolling around the edges of his opening, dropping lubricant over his quivering hole as he did so. 

"Sherlock, please, stop teasing. Stop."

With that, John felt Sherlock move even slower. Sherlock still didn't speak, but used his palm to grind John down into the metal bench. He hissed as the metal scratched at him, his shirt the only barrier that kept it from drawing blood. In Sherlock's other hand he held his cock, like a punishing instrument, he continued to use it only to run around the rim of his anus, dipping just the tip of it inside of John. 

John could picture it. Sherlock's gorgeous cock, only the head of it disappearing into the very edge of John's quivering hole. He imagined he was red from all Sherlock's attention, weeping with lubricant. He imagined Sherlock's hand over his back, grabbing at his shirt, pushing him down onto the bench. Just enough teasing pain, but not enough. He needed friction. 

John moved his hand to his crotch, but Sherlock slapped it away, still silent. John heard only the lapping noise of Sherlock rubbing his cock around John's hole, and their breath speeding up. 

He was so hot. This was so hot. 

"Please, Sherlock, you're going to make me come in my pants."

Sherlock responded by rubbing his cock around John's hole even more forcefully, dipping it into it, just to the tip, a little more often. John imagined Sherlock, his curls wet, sticking to the nape of his neck, a crimson flush creeping up his chest and collarbone. 

John bit his lip, and swore, his cock so heavy. He rolled his hips, just twice, his cock and balls rolling together in only his underwear and jeans. He came, only with Sherlock teasing at his hole, and the visions of Sherlock, fully dressed, just with his cock out, teasing him just with the tip of his cock, while bending him over a bench. 

"Sherlock, I'm coming. Jesus, I'm coming, you didn't even touch me, or fuck me."

With his thighs quivering, Sherlock removed his hand from John's back and snapped him upright a bit more. His long fingers bit into both of John's hipbones and he drove into John's hole with one long, punishing thrust. John felt like the inexperienced one, the near virgin, as Sherlock drove into him, straight and hard and quickly, digging fingers into his hipbones. He came, and they collapsed onto the bench. 

"Sherlock," John said, turning over, grabbing at him, pulling him close, "Baby, are you ok?" 

Sherlock just rubbed his face into John's neck. Was he embarrassed? 

"Are you ok?" Sherlock muttered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Sherlock, my beautiful boy, don't you dare be sorry. That was so incredibly hot." 

John sat up from the bench, putting him and Sherlock back together, running his hands over Sherlock's hair. Sherlock looked up at him from under his bangs and smiled, "I just, I feel so possessive of you. I want everyone to know you're mine."

"Oh baby, I'm yours-" 

John stopped. There was a shaking crash, a clattering of metal. A car crash? A bomb? There was yelling. Too close to be outside. 

"Oh my god. The scaffolding."

John ran out of the prop closet, at a breakneck pace. He would've felt better if there were yelling. If there were screaming. But it was quiet. So quiet. He came around the corner of the green room to the stage. 

Every light in the theatre was up. At 100%. Harry was yelling. She was shaking his arm, he was unsure where she'd even come from. 

"Where the fuck have you _been?_ You're supposed to be here, right fucking here. Anderson got caught in the quick release. We couldn't undo it. Jesus, where the fuck were you."

John looked up at the scaffolding. Anderson was dangling, his body wrapped up in the wood and the metal frame. How long ago had this happened? Five minutes? Ten minutes?

Technicians were up there, holding onto Anderson, trying to untangle him. To give him room from the scaffolding that pressed against his chest and his sternum. 

To keep the wood wrapped around his costume from strangling him. 

"Did you call 911?" John barked at Harry. She replied by holding up her phone. John went to the scaffold, but he didn't dare climb it. Any movement, any jostle, would cause the tangle of limbs and wood to crash against Anderson's windpipe. He looked slightly blue as it was. Everything was so silent, the only sound was the wheeze of Anderson's breathing and the nervous pacing of Harry in the house. 

The crackle of the emergency radios was heard before the crews ran in through the propped open doors. They navigated their stretcher gingerly, resting it on the stage floor. 

"We've ordered a helicopter. A med-evac." The lead EMT barked at Harry. Everyone could always tell she was clearly the one in charge. 

John didn't understand. Surely they could climb up, untie him, get him down. Everyone could hold him up. 

Looking around at the EMTs, up at the technicians, he felt no sense of peace. No sense of resolution. No collective sigh of relief. 

The lead EMT moved up the scaffolding slowly, nearly reverently. He up and under a gap, and moved around the technician, his arms weaving in between his. He felt along Anderson's throat, his chest, down his side. The EMT simply shook his head. The other medical crew grabbed a ladder, placing it right up against the scaffolding. No one was shouting. No one was moving fast enough. Everything was gentle, unhurried. He should be able to breathe, now. With everyone holding him, he should've been breathing. Checking and assessing for damages, a concussion. 

As the lead EMT shifted, one of the other medical technicians climbed up the ladder. As more firefighters arrived, they slowly replaced the technicians, keeping the weight balanced. 

One of the firemen carried a huge bag, a jaws of life and a car saw. John didn't understand. Why did the firefighter have a saw? The EMTs held onto Anderson, his head lolling to one side. The firefighter turned on the saw. As he turned his body, John saw what the firefighter was after. 

One of the scaffolding pieces had pierced Anderson's side.


	8. The Closing of an Act

The company waited for direction from Harry. Everything was unsure at this time. Reports and rumors floated. A coma, wakefulness with muddled speeches, parents waiting at Anderson's bedside for a word on his condition. The theatre company waited, together, at the theatre. 

Sherlock watched John. He quivered, oscillating near the scaffolding, looking up at it from the stage, as he measured out the distance between sections with his fingers. The company watched, silent. 

At 2 am, the sheriff arrived. They cleared the theatre, asking for everyone to leave except those who were directly involved with the raising of the scaffold. No one spoke as all the costumers and light techs left. Sherlock held John's hand and felt his fingers vibrating. 

"I know this is difficult," she began, taking turns looking each of them in the eye, as she made notes in a small spiral notebook, "One of your coworkers was seriously injured, and his condition is touch and go. I just need to make an initial investigation while it's still fresh. Then you can go home."

Sherlock's heart stuttered when John squeezed his fingers. So quickly, he had a friend and ally. 

Round and round the circle they discussed and answered, speaking only when spoken to. Eventually, the questions kept circling in over and over to the inspector, Jim Moriarty. 

"How long was he here?"

"Just a few days, ma'am," John answered. 

She was desperately trying to keep her face neutral, Sherlock noticed. 

"And how long was he…" She stopped, biting her cheek, "Is your policy to allow theatre guests to inspect the equipment unsupervised, or do they always have a company escort?"

Sherlock sucked in his breath. 

_The sheriff suspected Jim Moriarty._ Not only that, the questions were indicative of past circumstances. Past accidents. Sherlock's mind began to leap. _Joseph Green, fell from the fly loft July 2012. Spiny Run Theatre. Roger Nickleson, fell from a sloped stage in December 2014. The White Horse Theatre. Both had died from injuries sustained._

As Sherlock began to question the Sheriff on the other suspicious accidents, her radio cracked. Dispatch provided a code and the Sheriff turned away and stepped back, muffling the voice on the radio. Harry, John, Sherlock and the four other carpenters looked at each other as the Sheriff barked orders over the radio. She kept walking away, so her voice was muffled in the black curtains. 

Harry stepped in front of John, putting her hands on either side of his face, "Breathe, John. You're hyperventilating. It's not your fault-"

"Of course it's not his fault! What an idiotic thing to say!" Sherlock barked. The lead carpenter, Dameon, stepped in between Sherlock and Harry. 

Sherlock let go of John's hand and stood in front of Harry, she backed up, dropping her hands from her brother's face. "Harry, you know your brother," Sherlock's voice cracked, "He goes over safety multiple times. Jim Moriarty inspected it. Everyone cleared it. Don't put ideas into his head-"

Harry stood close, her nose nearly touching Sherlock's, "I wasn't putting ideas into his head, or suggesting anything. I was trying to make him feel better. Since when did you become his bodyguard? He can speak for himself. He doesn't need you _distracting_ him from what he's supposed to be doing."

As she said the word "distracting," Harry gestured to Sherlock's person, crudely focusing on his groin. Dameon stepped in between Harry and Sherlock again before Sherlock could move any closer to her.

John sat himself on the stage floor, his head in his hands. Before Sherlock could make a move to comfort him, the Sheriff was walking back to them with heavy steps, her face red.

Harry, who had been best friends with Anderson since High School, started screaming, "Don’t you dare come over here. No! Don't you dare. Stay over there. You can't! You can't tell me that. You can't!"

As Harry stomped her foot and pointed her finger at the Sheriff, she slowly approached Harry, keeping her arms open and relaxed. She captured a wailing Harry and sat her on the floor, rocking back and forth with her, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

At 3:47am, an ambulance was called for Harry's panic attack, 52 minutes after Phillip Anderson was proclaimed dead due to major internal bleeding that couldn't be stopped.


	9. A Single Light on Stage

Whenever there is an open pit, or an open hole on the stage, regulations require that a shadeless, single bulb lamp be kept on an in the middle of the pit at all times. The lamp alerts everyone that there is something dangerous on stage. 

Before they left the theatre, John went to the prop closet. He shivered as he looked at the cut of a bench he and Sherlock had fucked over, as Anderson was on stage, unwittingly climbing to his death. He felt hollow for not feeling more guilty. He knew he couldn't have changed it, whether he was in the prop closet or watching the stage, the damage was already done. The scaffold had been converted to a murder weapon. 

As John wiped off his eyes and cheeks with the bottom of his T-Shirt, he dug behind a crooked bookshelf and brought out a metal floor lamp. He tossed the lampshade aside, throwing it up over his shoulder. He ducked just in time as he exited the doorway so the bulb didn't crack against the doorway's lintel. 

John carried the light and positioned it next to the broken scaffolding. It had to stay up for now as no one had the energy or heart to break it down. He ran an extension cord from the workshop to the lamp, unkinking the cord as he unwound it. 

When the single bulb on the spindle of a lamp was set up, casting a yellow glow, he wandered through every bit of the theatre. He walked the fly loft, the house, the lobby, backstage, turning off lights as he went. As he walked to the large garage door that exited off the workshop, he could just peek through the curtains to see the lamp. He turned off the last light, shutting the garage door, locking the metal padlock. 

The sky was just beginning to turn light and pink as John pocketed his keys and walked up to Sherlock, smoking a cigarette and talking animatedly with Daemon, the head carpenter. Even through the pale dawn light John could see the two men gesturing to one another, their voices an angry whisper. At first, John thought they were fighting, but they were just angry in their agreement on Moriarty and the suspicious accident. 

"John has built complicated houses that have passed inspection. This was his mistake," Daemon pointed at Sherlock, "Jim thinks it's just another kid building an amateur set. He doesn't realize he's messed up the set of a licensed commercial architect."

Daemon and Sherlock stopped and looked up at John when he walked close. Sherlock took one last drag off his cigarette, throwing the butt on the ground and mashing it with his heel. John raised his eyebrow, then picked up the cigarette and threw it in the trash. 

John began walking, Daemon and Sherlock falling into step behind him. Sherlock watched John's posture. He didn't want to talk. He put his head down and his hands in his pockets. Instead, Daemon continued to whisper, discussing in detail, showing Sherlock on his phone, the other Theatres who'd had similar accidents after Jim Moriarty's inspection. 

Sherlock itched for another cigarette as he walked, but instead he wrung his hands.

"I just don't understand a motive!" Sherlock huffed, "Why hurt and kill performers in a theatre. What is there to gain?"

They walked another block in silence. John continued to walk in front, his head still down, his pace fast. The sun was nearly up, the light casting large shadows on the street. They were nearly to John's apartment. 

Sherlock stopped near the intersection, pulling at his hair, "Every possible motive makes no sense. Why? Why this theatre? Why Anderson?" 

Daemon shrugged, "Does he get his kicks off of it? Was he a kid who never got his break? I know he's a jerk. But why take it this far? It's insane."

They kept walking, nearly tripping on the back of John. John turned around, looking past them. 

"Jim Moriarty's full time business is performance accident and death insurance. He's a businessman. These accidents are good for business."

John turned back around, digging his keys back out of his pocket. His fingers were pink and shook with cold. 

Sherlock came up to him, resting his fingers on his shoulder, "John, that's brilliant. That's got to be it. With this, we can go to the Sheriff. Possible motive."

John looked back at Sherlock. He rolled his shoulder, moving away from Sherlock's touch. 

"My sister's best friend is still dead."

John pushed the door open, leaving Daemon and Sherlock on the sidewalk. Sherlock went to follow, but was stopped. 

"Please. Just...just give me some time alone."

Sherlock looked back at Daemon, who took a step forward, "John, we can stay in the living room. Or in the bar. I just don't think you should be completely alone."

John looked around Sherlock's shoulder, "Why? Because I'm weak? I'm the one that killed him?"

Sherlock looked back at John. John avoided eye contact. 

"No, John," Daemon said, stepping right behind Sherlock, "Frankly, I'm going to be having nightmares for years, I was right by Anderson when he-" he covered his eyes with his hand, "I don't want to be by myself. Can I come in with you two?"

John nodded, stepping back from the doorway. He bounded up the stairs before the men could follow, locking himself in his bedroom.


	10. The Second Intermission

John kept himself locked in his room. Daemon and Sherlock waited up all night playing cards and reading up about Moriarty on every trade website and chat group. A horrifying pattern emerged. The company would have a safety visit, they would pass the safety visit with flying colors and then a horrible accident would happen some time later. 

The two young men created what they agreed was the most morbid Pinterest account to ever be created. They linked theatres, dates, plays, directors, playwrights, set designers, locations and producers. There was nothing they could find that linked the incidents except Moriarty. 

When it was dawn, Sherlock caught a link. "Mercrium Insurance," he breathed. Checking other theatres, he located their insurance policies. He couldn't locate all of them, but of the ones he could, the theatres were insured by Mercrium Insurance, Seb Moran agent. 

The incidents were so spaced out, and involved such various degrees of accidents and incidents, that Moriarty never expected a pattern to be found. Within a span of a few hours, Daemon and Sherlock found the link and a possible motive. Insurance payouts.

Sherlock made a very strong pressed pot of coffee and sat down on the couch to eat some dry toast. Daemon was at the computer at the desk, near the window. Their heads snapped up when the bedroom door opened. John stumbled out of the bedroom. His hair was pushed in every direction and yesterday's clothes were rumpled upon his frame. John came over to Sherlock and laid on the couch, placing his head on his lap. Sherlock stroked through John's blonde locks. 

Daemon peeked up from John's laptop. He looked at Sherlock, who nodded. 

"Sherlock and I found something, John. A link between everything." 

John grunted, snuggling further into Sherlock's lap. Daemon continued, "Everywhere Moriarty went there was an insurance payout with the same company and the same agency. Mercrium insurance with the Seb Moran agency. That was all we could find tying every one of these accidents together with Jim Moriarty."

John pushed himself up on one elbow, "So, you two figured this out in one night?"

Sherlock moved his hand to rub John's back, "Yes, we haven't had time to determine how this information benefits Jim Moriarty, or how the agency or insurance links to him, but we've at least come up with something for the investigators to look at."

John nearly crawled up into Sherlock's lap. Daemon rubbed his hand through his hair and rested his chin in his hands. His mouth gaped open. Though Sherlock had just gotten to know John, he had at least deduced that John was strong and always asserted himself as a leader. Daemon watching John break down must be disconcerting.

"It doesn't bring Anderson back."

"No," Sherlock's voice was somewhat sharp, but it caught John's attention, "But in knowing this information we can prevent it from happening to someone else."

John took a cup of coffee and sat back against the couch, leaning into Sherlock's side as he drank it. Daemon and Sherlock didn't speak, but continued to research. John dozed in Sherlock's lap for a couple of hours. Before lunch, they snapped awake when the doorbell rang. Sherlock answered it. 

The sheriff was at the door, demanding to bring in John Watson for questioning in the accidental death of Phillip Anderson. Sherlock asked that Daemon call John's parents, and offered to accompany John to the station. The sheriff did not allow Sherlock to go with him. 

When Daemon and Sherlock were alone, Sherlock turned to the other man and said, "We are on the right track. Moriarty is getting desperate. I'm sure he called in a tip to put heat on John."

"What do we do?" asked Daemon. 

"Figure out the link between Mercrium, Moran and Moriarty."


	11. Understudy In Place

Sherlock and Daemon decided to start with every death that had at least one variable of Moriarty, Moran or Mericurium insurance. They worked at a fever pace, knowing John was being questioned. 

The two men printed brochures, playbills and actor databases. Every similar feature was pinned at drawn out, listing each feature. The plays were different and the locations varied. Sherlock pulled his hair in frustration. 

"There has to be another pattern, or another reason" Sherlock growled, "I can't see it."

Daemon pulled out a Playbill, then another. He smoothed out the listings so the cast was side by side, including the understudies. 

Sherlock jumped up, running his fingers along the bottom of each bill. He jumped up, his chair clattering across the kitchen floor, "Daemon, the understudies. Look at the understudies."

In each playbill, of each injured actor, their understudy was Charles Augustus Magnussen. Non-equity actor. At least, to begin with. Over time, his acting experience grew, and he moved from non-equity to equity. 

Sherlock grabbed all the playbills, running downstairs. Daemon yelled after him, asking where he was going. Sherlock stopped at the doorway, "We need to get to the station."

Daemon called a cab, ushering him inside. Sherlock began speaking a mile a minute, "It's not the _insurance,_ it's the _understudy._ The insurance is just coincidental as statistically they insure 90% of midwest theatres, so there is no individual link between them all. This, however, is a glitch we can't explain. Each time he is an understudy, the actor he works with is hurt, or dies, and this Magnussen takes the stage."

Daemon shook his head, "That's brilliant how your mind works. Insane that you can make that connection, but brilliant. John said you were amazing."

Sherlock blushed, holding the playbills in his hands, twisting them slightly. The paper was wrinkled and sweaty by the time they were dropped at the station. 

"Sherlock," Daemon called after him as he bolted up the large cement stairway. Sherlock didn't hear him as he swung open the double doors into the lobby. He was nearly arrested himself as he demanded to speak with the detectives on the case. 

An older man came out, introducing himself as "Roger." He advised they were closing in on a subject and his boyfriend would be done soon. Sherlock pointed out to the Detective that each death or injury involved the understudy Charles Augustus Magnussen. The Detective sucked in a breath, then attempted to show a passive expression to the young man. It was too late. Sherlock had seen the look of recognition pass before his eyes. 

"What is your name?" He asked, flipping through each playbill. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," He said loudly, hoping, however unlikely, that John could hear him. 

"Do you mind if I take these, Mr. Holmes? I'm not sure what you've uncovered but I think these playbills might help."

"Yes sir," he exhaled. John was still not the suspect. 

As Roger walked away, indicating for Sherlock to sit in the waiting room, he gestured to the person at the front desk, "Get this boy a folder on our internships, would you?"

Roger disappeared through the double doors. Daemon finally found him, sitting hard in the old wooden chairs, "You asshole. I didn't know where you went--"

Daemon stopped talking as the front desk attendant brought over a folder to Sherlock, handing it to him with a nod. He looked over Sherlock's shoulder as he read the steps for the internship application. 

Daemon sighed, "I guess based on this, you were on to something."

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile, shrugging his shoulders. He continued to read through it as they waited.


	12. "Displace one note and there would be diminishment."

Sherlock clicked his fingertips against the waiting room chair, tapping against the plastic edging of the laptop. Daemon threw up a crumpled Playbill into the air and caught it, muttering to himself. 

"Anderson was jealous...everything was perfect. His greatest role."

Sherlock looked over at Daemon, tilting his head to listen more closely to his diatribe. 

"Last role was Salieri in Amadeus, talked about how dying would be part of fame, and he wanted to live a life to fame-"

Sherlock jumped up, yelling, causing Daemon to drop the crumpled Playbill program on his face. 

"Say that again."

Daemon sat up on his elbows, blinking up at Sherlock, "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood over him, pulling at his hair, creating a wild halo around his head. His eyes burned ice blue, "Repeat what you said about the play before. Salieri? Amadeus?"

Daemon spoke slowly, watching Sherlock's eyes move back and forth across his face, "His last role before this was Salieri in Amadeus. It was moderately viewed but critically acclaimed. The character infers to mustering Amadeus to become immortal, then attempts to kill himself-"

Sherlock grabbed Daemon by both sides of his head, smacking a kiss on his forehead, "Not nearly as good as John," he murmured, "but you are a conductor of light. Of sorts."

Daemon watched Sherlock grab his wallet and run outside. He tried to follow, but Sherlock shooed him back inside, asking him to wait there in case John was released. 

Sherlock walked, then ran, as his thoughts sped up. The scaffold that had been inspected. The stage scenery that John had masterfully built. The inspection by Moriarty of the set that had coincided with Anderson's accident with the scaffolding and his death. Everyone in the theatre community had their suspicions of Moriarty for a long time. 

Now, to his ultimate shock, he was considering that Moriarty was innocent of this particular crime. There were still too many accidents and injuries with the trifecta of Moriarty, Magnussen and Mericurium insurance, but in this case, it was a horrible copycat crime. 

He ran to the theatre to search Anderson's dressing room space. He was unsure if it would be closed off, but the theatre and rooms were unlocked. The investigation had turned onto Magnussen or to a tragic accident. Sherlock went to Anderson's dressing room mirror, pulling open drawers, snapping photos on his phone. He saw the corner of one scrap of paper that appeared to be especially damning. Just from his viewpoint, he could see a list of items, partially hidden:

  
slick steps. Sawdust --wood unmarked .... Wires. Hinges --- broken. Twist. Publicity. ... Talk to agent regarding.... // physical therapy... Open trap door. Loose lighting -- ... >

Sherlock shoved his phone in his back pocket, running back outside and down to the police station. He had motive, reason and some proof, and now to turn it over to the authorities. He smiled, giggling, covering his mouth as he chastised himself, "I can't giggle, someone died for god's sake." 

He ran into the police station lobby, sliding on the linoleum. Daemon looked at him and began to talk, but Sherlock shushed him harshly, demanding to speak to Greg Lestrade. 

They had to wait an hour. Sherlock spent the entire time pacing and muttering to himself, his fingertips on his temples, flipping his fingers as if looking at imaginary photos on the wall. Daemon watched, equal parts fascinated and frightened, unsure if he was watching a brilliant mind or a full blown psychotic break.

Greg Lestrade, not above dramatics himself, pushed through the double doors, blowing them open with a crack. 

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry we have no other news, the Magnussen lead is elusive. He's been in Europe for 3 weeks-"

Sherlock stopped him, putting up his hand. He began talking at a breakneck pace, hardly stopping to breathe. 

"We were wrong. Anderson wanted fame, and so he'd sought it, being driven to the idea from the Amadeus play he'd acted in and from the other accidents that actors had been involved in. He would make himself become injured on a set piece, this setting another Moriarty investigation into motion. Bringing attention to the theatre and show. Bringing attention to Anderson. However, he miscalculated the sturdiness of the rigging, and inhaled himself, bleeding out rather than simply becoming injured. I have photos from his personal effects."

The detective looked at the photos and up at the young man in front of him. He looked at Daemon, who shrugged his shoulders in confusion. 

"We will consider this in light of all the other theories."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest, "There is nothing else to consider. I've told you what to look for and provided you with the evidence. I've done your work for you."

The detective didn't say a word, but stood with a hand on his hip and pointed to the door. 

"Out!" He commanded, causing another woman in the lobby to drop her magazine. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Daemon pulled on his sleeve, ushering him out into the street. 

"What an idiot!" Sherlock yelled, gesturing at the entire building, "They're all idiots!" 

Daemon pulled Sherlock further down the street, "That may be. But you aren't helping John by making everyone else angry. You have to let them do their job and come to their conclusions."

"What if it's the wrong one and they lock John up forever?" Sherlock couldn't hide the emotion in his voice. 

"Sherlock, they'll make the best decision they can. Let's go back to the theatre and wait for John. I'm sure that's where he will end up."

They walked to the theatre in silence, each keeping their thoughts to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from this chapter is from the play Amadeus.   
> [ Information about Salieri and Amadeus the Play ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonio_Salieri)


	13. "We're free and clear. Sobbing more fully, released: We're free."

Sherlock and Daemon walked to the theatre, opening the back door to enter the green room. Sherlock remembered the warmth he'd felt meeting John here for the first time, which now seemed a lifetime away. They walked through the wings, walked onto the stage, staring up at the scaffolding, the aluminium framing still bent, unmoved from when Anderson was removed from its grip.

Daemon jumped a bit when the doors opened. John walked in, quiet, hands in his pockets. Sherlock and Daemon watched him walk through the audience seats, all three men too exhausted to speak. John stood between them, looking up at the scaffolding. 

"It wasn't even my fault, the detective said," John kept speaking, the others stayed silent, "No matter how safe I made it, he was determined to get his fame and glory. No matter how it happened. No matter how many friends and family loved him. It wasn't enough. He wanted fame at any cost. Even if he brought others down with him. Even if it meant a horrific injury."

"Or a terrible death," Sherlock muttered, watching John's face. John nodded, his shoulders sagging down into his frame. 

John was the first to turn, exiting the stage. Daemon and Sherlock followed, silently, the three of them turning off all the lights as they went. For the first time in recent memory, the theatre was left completely dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter is from the ending speech of [ Death Of a Salesman ](http://www.pelister.org/literature/ArthurMiller/Miller_Salesman.pdf)
> 
> This fanfiction has been a reimagining of the case of the Aluminium Crutch, which can be [ found here on John Watson's blog. ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/02september%22) Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> *Check updated tags.*
> 
> For DaringD and kimluvsbenedict who 'follow' my different works and who are encouragements to me. <3


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